


Accusing/Denying

by isthisenoughorcanwegohigher



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Based on a Chord Overstreet song, Suicide Attempt, a mild one, listen......there's just a lot of angst™
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:48:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24777163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isthisenoughorcanwegohigher/pseuds/isthisenoughorcanwegohigher
Summary: Four words, and Newt might just lose the best thing that ever happened to him. Four words, and Newt might go from better to worse. Four words, four angry words, false words, and Newt might lose the third chance he thinks he doesn't deserve.
Kudos: 11





	Accusing/Denying

**Author's Note:**

> _I can't imagine a world with you gone_   
>  _The joy and the chaos, the demons we're made of_   
>  _I'd be so lost if you left me alone_

One angry sentence, four words, a raised voice. A glint in the eye and sharp tone. That was all it took for the prolonged silence to be broken by the slamming of the front door, which echoed through the stillness left behind, a sound that for all its inherent force was quieter than the argument had been. It was jarring, and it left Newt unsettled, feeling queasy, off balance. Sure, the front door was slammed plenty of times, but never this way, never with Thomas on the other side of the door, never with all those words shouted between them, never with the apologies left unspoken.

_ “I don’t love you.” _

Unspoken apologies, indeed. Newt had never done anything but love Thomas. He loved Thomas more than he loved himself. Hell, he loved Thomas because Thomas loved him, and that helped him learn to love himself. He loved Thomas in spite of, well, everything. Through everything. Through anything. But those four words…. He couldn’t take those back. Not now. Certainly not soon. And, as the sickening fear began to travel to his shaking hands, turning them slick with sweat, he was sure that he would never be able to take them back. Thomas had heard those four furious words. Thomas had stopped in his tracks, shut his mouth and stared at Newt in wide-eyed surprise. Thomas had turned around and walked out. Slammed the door behind him. Thomas wasn’t coming back.

Newt trembled, the anxiety flickering to life in his veins replacing the hot anger with a cold terror. His leg hurt. He needed to sit down, but he was rooted to his spot in the hallway. He actively tried to move his feet, to walk to the couch, to even lift a hand to eye level to watch it tremble, but he was frozen. A statue of regret and hurt and desperation, molded to the house he and Thomas had worked so hard to make a home. A heartbreaking work of art. 

His leg hurt. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t even begin to understand how to force the neurological activity in his brain to activate the muscles in his feet so he could get them to work. Couldn’t fathom leaving this spot until Thomas returned, a sickening vigil that would result in Newt wasting away until there was nothing left but the imprint in the floor of where he stood now. The rest of the floor aged with time, but the spot beneath his feet forever the same. 

His leg hurt. His heart hurt. With every beat of it, the shame and regret of those words and the fight set his soul aching. Surely Thomas knew better than to believe him. But, as his heart raced on, his stomach sank. With the way he’d been acting lately, there was every possibility that Thomas might, in fact, believe him. And he wouldn’t blame Thomas if he did. Newt had been quick to anger the past--well, the past year. Changes he wasn’t expecting with his job. Constant pressure to perform a hundred and ten percent. A global bloody pandemic. Being yelled at, threatened, almost hit, pushed to his breaking point and beyond every day he was on the clock. It was getting to the point where Newt didn’t remember work. He would clock in, go through the routines, and when clocked out and left for home, found that he couldn’t recall any specific details about work except the conversations that stood out for all the wrong reasons. His favorite people at work forgot how long they’d known him. The people he relied on at work to check in with him and his progress neglected to do so and yet at the same time made him feel as though that was on him, to make sure that they checked in with him, when he was busy with a dozen other tasks that held his attention with a surer grip than something that he wasn’t supposed to be responsible for. The people who were supposed to teach him the things he still needed to know didn’t have time--not that he blamed them--and so he was left to figure it out for himself on top of everything else. No, Newt would certainly not blame Thomas if he did believe that Newt no longer loved him. For all the world, it seemed now that Newt was more devoted to proving himself at work than proving his worth in the relationships he had.

His leg hurt. His leg hurt, and he could no longer the spasm of pain as it shot up from his ankle to his thigh to his waist, to his back and up. Newt crumbled to the ground, hitting the wood flooring with a sort of finality. He’d managed to move, but only to his knees, which would surely be bruised by tomorrow, if he managed to uproot himself from this spot by then. The pain didn’t leave as it usually did, and he had a feeling it was more psychosomatic this time that in the past, because it lingered in his lungs, as he heaved air in and out, chest burning, heart racing. It lingered in his stomach as it churned, lingered in his fingertips as they buzzed, on the verge of going numb, lingered in his eyes as they warmed and stung with unshed tears. Logically, he knew this was a panic attack, days and weeks and perhaps months overdue. Logically, he knew that this was a rational reaction to a rapidly changing world. Logically, he knew that this was a perfectly fine response. But in the midst of the panic attack, as his vision blurred and the tears fell thick and hot, as his breathing spun out of control, Newt was incapable of thinking logically. All he could think of were those final four words, the assurance with which he’d spoken them, not matter how angry and spiteful he was feeling, no matter how desperately he’d just wanted to lash out and start a fight just for something,  _ anything,  _ different to prove that things could still be different. No matter how all he’d wanted to do was provoke, to get anger in return. No matter how much of a lie it was.

_ “I don’t love you.” _

Of three things, Newt was unwaveringly positive. One: he’d fucked up. Massively and incredibly fucked up. He’d been on the course of fucking up ever since the new year started, but it had all accumulated to this. He was lucky it was only this, because with Thomas, he knew he could apologize and do better and  _ be  _ better. With anyone else? He might not get a second chance. He might not get a third chance. He owed Thomas his life and his love and more. Two: This was his third chance with Thomas. There was every chance Thomas might not come back. Might not stick around. Not this time. And there was nothing in the world that would leave Newt blaming Thomas for that decision. It would have been a long time coming, and maybe Newt could eventually even come to be happy for Thomas that he had finally left. After everything Newt put him through, it was more than Thomas deserved, to have someone else. Someone better. Kinder. More capable of caring and loving and cherishing the way Newt struggled to. Three: He needed to breathe, and stop crying. Get his emotions wrangled back into their box, stowed away. Needed to fix things as best as he could, if there was anything left to be fixed that he hadn’t broken beyond repair.

His leg hurt. His chest ached. His lungs burned. He couldn’t see through the haze of yet unmanaged tears. Still, Newt forced himself to limp to the couch, every twinge of his ankle reminding him of how undeserving he was of someone as loyal and loving as Thomas.

  
  


_ With every step Newt took down the dark and deserted road, the wind whipping at his face, pulling the ragged scarf he’d managed to locate in the closet from his neck, the snow seeping into his sneakers and jeans, icy cold numbing his arms in the threadbare sweater, he felt nothing but the urge to keep going. Keep trekking through the midnight winter storm along the side of the road, ignoring the headlights of cars passing by and the glances of the drivers, secure and assured of their place in live, warm in the interiors of the metal moving at times even slower than he did through the build up of flakes on the ground. He didn’t belong here. He didn’t have a place here. He was barely passing school, his internship was deteriorating before his eyes as he realized that once graduate school ended, he’d be unable to keep it. They didn’t keep people who had two degrees that could get them a real job. At the time, joining the company had been his lifeline in a desperate search for experience to add to his resume. Now, despite how much he’d grown to hate showing up every day, despite how much it pained him to know that a policy he’d once been grateful for could be his undoing, it was a version of home. But despite all he did to hold on--to the internship, to a place in the little part of the world he’d carved for himself, to the relationships he was terrified would fade after graduation--he was slipping, hard and fast, and there was no safety net to catch him, no reassurances that could mend the cracks in his heart that grew faster than the cracks in the concrete beneath his feet would grow in the spring when the earth thawed again.  _

_ It was impossible to walk this cold and lonely road, the stars hidden behind layers of cloud and thick falling snow that dotted his eyelashes and made looking up impossible, and not feel insignificant. Not feel like a blip on a timeline, a single dot in a small set of improbably long years. Not feel like it wasn’t worth continuing the fight. Not feel like it would be easier to keep walking, the eerie echo of daylight brought on by streetlights as trapped in this storm as he was lighting his way, and walk until he could walk no further, until he could feel the aching in his ankle again and he had to stop, and sit. Like it would be easy, so easy, terrifyingly easy, to stop and let the pain warm him as the snow buried him. As the warmth he knew he was already feeling would be no more an illusion than any place he’d manage to carve for himself. _

_ It was impossible to care. It was easier, really to not care at all. To be as cold to the world around him as the winter was. To have an icy heart and not let anyone in again, and to freeze out the people already there. Easier, better for everyone, better for him. Safer. _

_ And it all hinged on that, really. The feeling of safety. And Newt knew that no matter how much he might need people, it was safer to be on his own. He would hurt less people that way.  _ He _ would hurt less that way. Simpler. Safer. Yes, being on his own was the right choice. Fading into non-existence was the right choice. Nevermind that almost two years ago, he’d had the exact same thoughts, ended up in almost the exact same position, and in exchange for not asking for help and isolating, had wound up in the hospital, in a coma for nearly a month, only to wake up to his friends and furious boyfriend telling him that his heart had stopped once and nearly taken theirs with it. No forgetting the leg, either. It healed, but there had been too much damage to the bone. Too high a fall for it to heal right, the doctors had said. A permanent limp, they said. Not a high enough fall to kill him, though it had been close, they said. He should be grateful, they said, and remember to ask for help if it ever got this bad again. _

_ It was that bad again, but the one thing no one seemed to grasp was that the most impossible thing for Newt to do when it got that bad was ask for help. He was thoroughly convinced that he wasn’t worth the help, that no one genuinely cared or would want to help, that it would be an inconvenience, that he would be a burden. _

_ So he walked, growing colder and more upset and more convinced that it would be easier to just disappear. He walked and walked, and lost track of how far he went. How far he was from help. But the funny thing about life is that despite best laid plans, they don’t work out when you want them to. _

_ A car pulled up, driving slower than he’d seen tonight, and when he felt the headlights washing over him, an unwelcome intrusion on the solitude he’d sought out to die in, the car drew closer to the sidewalk before coming to a stop, engine still running, headlights still casting shadows around him as Newt held up a hand against the searing brightness. Someone clambered out of the passenger seat, all limbs and heaving, worried breaths. _

_ “Newt?” It was Thomas. Of course it was, it was always Thomas. Always him. Always, no matter how hard Newt tried to push him away. “Newt, hey, you’re soaked, let’s get you in the car and get you home, okay?” _

_ Newt shook his head, a jarring motion after being lost in the act of walking, and jerked away from the car in a half step back. He wasn’t going to go back. There was nothing worth going back to. _

_ “Newt,” Thomas tried again, taking a step forward to join the older boy on the snow swept sidewalk. “Please. I’ve been worried sick. Let me help you.” _

_ “No.” Newt’s voice cracked, partly from the crying he’d been unaware of until now, partly from disuse. “There’s nothing to go back to.” _

_ “Yes, there is.” Thomas’s voice was strained. “Of course there is. Please.” _

_ “No.” _

_ “Newt….” _

_ “I said no!” And all the fear and desperation and hurt boiled over, exploding out of Newt in a white hot fury. “There’s nothing worth going back to! We  _ all  _ know it would be easier for everyone if I’d succeeded the first time! If I was gone! None of you would have a broken thing to look after and worry about and you could get on with your lives. You--” _

_ “First time?” There was a note of panic that Thomas could not quite filter out. “Newt, what do you mean first time? I thought that was the only time. You said...I thought you were getting better!” He was silent for a second. “Is that what this is?” Thomas asked, his voice tight. “Is that what you’re doing? Wandering the streets in the middle of a blizzard hoping you’ll freeze to death? Trying to kill yourself again?” With each question, he took a step closer to Newt, who couldn’t back away fast enough. _

_ “What does it matter?” _

_ “It matters to me!” _

_ “It shouldn’t!” _

_ “Tough!” Thomas snapped. “It matters to me.  _ You  _ matter to me, you asshole. And I’m not going to let you do this again.” _

_ “You don’t get to let me do anything,” Newt hissed back. “This is my choice. Let me die. Please.” _

_ “Never going to happen.” _

_ “Please, Tommy, I--” _

_ “No!” Thomas shouted, throwing his hands in the air. “Stop it, Newt! You don’t get to do this again. You don’t. Okay? So get in the damn car.” _

_ Newt stood silently, narrowing his eyes at Thomas and planting his feet as firmly into the snow packed ground as he could. _

_ “Damn it, Newt.” _

_ “Leave me here,” Newt said. “Drive away. Forget about me. You deserve better. You all deserve better. Just leave!” His voice cracked on the second iteration of the word leave, and Newt knew that Thomas didn’t believe him one bit. _

_ Thomas took the final few steps forward and wrapped his arms around Newt, who was now shaking from the combination of stress and cold. “We’re going home,” he said, his own voice hoarse. “We’re going to get you dry and warm, and we’re going to have a nice long talk about why you’re feeling this way again.” _

_ “Please,” Newt said again, but there was no force behind it, and he allowed Thomas to lead him to the passenger door of the car. _

  
  


Third chances. This would be his third chance, if Thomas came back. Not many people got third chances in situations like this. He doubted he would get a fourth, if it came to that. But it wouldn’t come to that. It might not come to a third chance, because Thomas might not come back this time.

Logically, Newt knew that wasn’t true. The two of them moved heaven and earth for each other, went to hell and back. Thomas would be back. But Newt still wasn’t thinking logically. He was still in the throes of a panic attack, and one wrong train of thought would send him spiraling again. He’d made it to the couch, though, and he was sitting on it, curled in a tight ball and barely aware of anything but the smooth material of the cushion on his calves.

He was hardly aware of time passing, barely noticed the transition from late morning to afternoon to dusk to middle of the night. Newt just sat on the couch, keeping a safe distance between himself and his thoughts, eyes glazed over as he watched a cartoon he’d at some point turned on, hoping the nonsensical words would distract him from his own. He surfaced, though, shocked from his thoughts at last when the door slammed again.

The door slammed again, and the sound reverberated, filling the crushing sound of emptiness. Newt stood from the couch so quickly that, factoring in how long he was just beginning to realize he’d been frozen in place, the loss of blood flow left him staggering into the wall as he dragged himself into the hallway.

Thomas was standing in the entrance, silhouetted by the hazy glow of the porch light. He watched Newt, expression unreadable.

Newt didn’t care. He took another step forward before he became aware that he couldn’t walk properly yet and stopped just short of Thomas. “You came back.”

_ “I don’t love you.”  _

Those four words, those four eternal and damning words, echoed through the hours that had passed.

“Yes,” Thomas responded. Short and sweet. To the point. There was no discernable emotion in the single word. And it broke Newt’s heart.

“I’m...sorry,” Newt said. “I’m so sorry.” It didn’t fix anything. Didn’t even begin to. But there was nothing else he could say in the moment that would fit. Nothing yet that could do anything except maybe, for the night, get Thomas to stay. Just one more night.

“I know.”

“I didn’t mean it.”

“I know that, too.”

“I’m really sorry, Thomas.”

Thomas sighed. He took a step forward, and as he moved from the shadows of the entrance into the light of the hallway, Newt saw every emotion on his face, and they scared him. But nothing scared him more than Thomas not stopping until he was in front of Newt, hands on his shoulders, and staring into Newt’s eyes with more love and care than Newt had ever seen. “I know,” he said again. “And I’m sorry, too.”

Newt trembled, any remnants of anger draining from him completely, and Thomas pulled him into a hug. They both stood there for a moment that felt like it could be the start to a perfect eternity, breathing shakily. Maybe, now, things could start to get better. Things could start to heal. Things could be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> _Hold on, I still want you_   
>  _Come back, I still need you_   
>  _Let me take your hand, I'll make it right_   
>  _I swear to love you all my life_   
>  _Hold on, I still need you_


End file.
